


Watercolor on Woven Paper

by ladymal



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymal/pseuds/ladymal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That there had once been a time he'd have left this behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watercolor on Woven Paper

**Author's Note:**

> For sin-harel on tumblr. A'mytharra and Sertia belong to them.

The soil is soft and rich beneath his fingers as Solas digs, his touch careful. He can feel it working its way into every crevice of his hands, beneath his nails and into their bed. Cool and damp and gritty on his calloused skin. Not entirely unpleasant but he will have to spend a good amount of time scrubbing at the wash basin if he hopes to remove all of the stains. 

  
It would be easier and quicker to use a spade but he has learned that it is riskier, as well. By necessity, such tools are sharp—able to cleave through earth and plant alike. No matter how meticulous or mindful he is, some part of the latter would inevitably be destroyed in his search. An acceptably small part, perhaps—a few vegetables or, at worst, one of the larger root systems—that the plant would survive without and still leave plenty to harvest. But it would be a needless loss.

  
His lips thin at the idea. No, better to take another approach, laborious and time-consuming as it was.

  
_Ah_ , he thinks with satisfaction as the potatoes he has been after are uncovered. They have grown well this year. Only midsummer and the handful of tubers he frees from the earth are large and heavy with sturdy skins. Judging by the size of the plant, he would not be surprised if there are many more like them still buried.

  
A child's squeal followed by his vhenan's laugh draws his attention and he tilts his wide-brimmed hat to look out from beneath. Across the clearing where they'd built their home and just inside the surrounding forest, A'mytharra is teaching their daughter the art of tanning hides. They sit at a steaming pot, one prepared skin stretched out nearby and fresher ones bundled and waiting for soaking.

  
Another—almost delighted—noise of disgust and Solas chuckles. Sertia isn't well pleased with the lesson, it seems. He can hardly blame her. Despite his distance, the same breeze that carries their voices brings with it the familiar stench of curing skin that is vile enough to curl his nose hairs. They are too far away for him to see their expressions but he imagines the scrunch of Sertia's nose, the twist of the corner of her mouth. _Like her papae_ , A'mytharra would claim with a teasing smile.

  
Solas gives his own smile at the thought—something content tightening in his chest—and feels the sudden urge to replace the soil on his hands with pigment. To hold polished wood worn with use between his fingers. He places the potatoes in his basket with the rest of the supper vegetables. Absently brushing the dirt from his hands, he considers them and then the garden as a whole. There is nothing that needs immediate attention—though the garlic will turn soon—and there is daylight enough to indulge.

  
Decided, he pushes himself to his feet with a huff for his aching knees, grabs the harvest, and walks towards the house with a last look at the two pieces of his heart.

 

* * *

 

  
He sets up quietly beneath one of the ancient, twisting trees they'd left for shade. Close but not so close that he can't claim to be an unintended disruption to his vhenan's teaching. His easel is locked into place and thick paper placed on the tray. 

  
By now, A'mytharra is sending him exasperated looks while simultaneously trying to keep their daughter focused on her task. There is no true hope of that, of course, and his lips twitch when he sees Sertia turn to look. A word from her mother has her quickly refocusing only for her attention to drift again a moment later. Another warning—a little sharper—while Solas pretends not to notice the distraction he's caused. 

  
His simple stool he puts down in front of the easel, along with the crate of supplies that doubles as a table. Once those are unpacked, he sits and sets his hat on the grass at his side. His box of pigment cakes is opened, a brush dipped into water, and then he begins to paint.

  
It is not the method or style that he had once favored but there is pleasure and beauty in the way color blooms upon the page. In the water's movement between the grain of the paper. Mutable and unrestricted but also able to be guided. Different from applying pigment to wet plaster but not unrecognizably so. It had taken him time to understand that truth.

  
His eyes flit from the page to his subjects. He can never say he regrets those long, difficult hours.

  
It doesn't take long for Sertia to start fidgeting hopelessly and A'mytharra to recognize defeat for what it is. With a sigh that no doubt even the village can hear, she says a few quiet words that has their daughter on her feet in an instant.

  
"Papae! Papae!" she shouts as she races over. "Let me paint with you!"

  
He pauses and waits for her to reach him. A'mytharra watches her go then gives him a dark glance full of promise and he chokes slightly on a laugh. Sertia doesn't notice as she wedges herself between him and the easel, almost sending it toppling before he catches it. Out of breath, she huffs as she tilts her head back to look at him.

  
"Ready—Papae."

  
Pursing his lips to cover his amusement, he ducks his chin. "Of course."

  
He gives her the brush—adjusting small, chubby fingers into the proper grip—before taking her hand and gently guiding her into painting. First of the forest in greens and blues and golds with splashes of brightness when she insists that there should be butterflies. Then grays and black, oranges and yellows for the cooking pot over its fire. She chatters as they work, interrupted by sudden, earnest silences when he gives a soft instruction. Finally, they start adding color to the two dark-haired figures and her voice becomes thoughtful.

  
"Papae, why do you paint me and Mamae so much?" she asks.

  
"Because you are precious to me, el'lath."

  
"Oh." She's quiet and Solas knows that there is a crease of a frown between her brows. "Mamae says it's because you love us and want to remember us."

  
He plants a kiss on her hair, marveling briefly that it seems to turn more auburn by the day. "I do."

  
"Oh."

  
He smiles at the simple response as she apparently considers what he has said. When she turns around in his arms, brush still in hand, her eyes are wide and serious. She looks at him for a moment, frowns, and begins smearing his nose with paint.

  
Solas reels back, startled by the cold, wet bristles, and she bursts into giggles. His surprise doesn't last and he stills her before she can move in for another coat.

  
"Brushes are for canvases, da'len," he chides and smothers the grin tugging at his face. Sertia slaps her hand over her mouth but it does nothing to stifle her laughter. "Noses, however..."

  
She tries to duck under his arms with a shriek but he tightens them around her and then he is rubbing the tip of his nose over her forehead. The brush is back—this time around his ear—as she squirms and squeals with laughter. Things devolve from there. Tinted water flies, colors are blurred, and he somehow finds himself a willing canvas as his daughter covers his head with every pigment in his possession. 

  
At some point, A'mytharra seems to have a loud coughing fit over by her tanning and Solas sees her doubled over and red-faced. She recovers quickly and walks over, grinning.

  
"What are you doing, da'len?" she ask.

  
"Painting Papae so that he can remember us."

  
"Is that so? Best do his ears, too, my love. Just to be sure." She bites her lip. "Perhaps in a pretty red?"

  
"Yes, Mamae," Sertia answers with dutiful seriousness.

  
Eyes glittering, A'mytharra covers her mouth with her hand and looks pained as she contains her laughter.

  
Solas raises an eyebrow. "Something wrong, my heart?"

  
A noise escapes her and he feels the brush on his scalp still a moment.

  
"No, no," A'mytharra assures them with a clearing of her throat. She moves to pluck at his shirt and the hopelessly muddy stains that now grace it. "You are a mess, vhenan."

  
"The medium was...troublesome."

  
"Hmm, it seems so. It's taken your painting as a casualty, too."

  
"Ah."

  
Short of himself, the painting has indeed gotten the worst of things. Excess water, incongruous spots of pigment and pools of indistinct gray have turned the scene into chaos. There was still a few areas of clarity, however, where its original beauty peaks through.

  
"Not quite," he says as his eyes trace the figures still around their cooking pot. "Though it has certainly diverged from what was intended. What do you think, da'len? Do we start over?"

  
Sertia stops painting to come around and wrap her arms tight around his neck. Shaking her head fiercely, she buries her face in the crook of his neck. 

  
"I don't want you to forget us, Papae."

  
His stomach clenches. That there had been a time when such a thing had been something to consider. Even for a moment to feel—To think to harden himself into becoming something— He holds his daughter, willing even just a fraction of the _love_ he feels—infinite and breath-taking in its intensity—to be felt by her, as well.

  
"Never," he promises, the word taking root in his bones. Beating as one with his heart. "Never."


End file.
